Like How I Imagined
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Glancing up, he grasps the stranger's hand. As he gets a better look at the fellow student, Andy sees that he is precisely how he imagined Woody would be if the doll were real. .:. Post-TS3 events with Andy in college. an AndyXhuman!Woody threeshot.
1. Woody? Wesley?

**A/N: I think I lost it. Seriously. My mind has officially left the building.**

**Note: No, Andy is no being paired with an OC; at least, not technically. The person is basically a humanized, younger version of Woody, so… yeah. I dunno. I'm just hair-brained and full of crack ideas, lulz. And my friend assisted me by helping me figure out Woody's and Buzz's (human!Buzz is mentioned in brief as human!Woody's brother) names. Their last name is taken from one of the voice actors, and their first names are random but have the same first letters as their original names. So there, I'm totally unoriginal and weird. Huzzah! XD**

**Also: cliché/over-used meeting is cliché and over-used. ;P  
(you'll see what I mean in the fourteenth paragraph.)  


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He doesn't feel like he's in college, ready for the world. He doesn't feel like he's mature and grown-up and intelligent, even if he does get good grades. His art teacher last year said she hopes he pursues a career in the arts because he's very "gifted" and has "the world's biggest imagination for a teenager" and things like that. But all he feels like is a child.

An overly imaginative, stuck-in-his-own-world, ignorant child.

With a sigh, he logs off his laptop and sets it aside. He flicks a pencil on his desk and watches it roll back down to his finger, the sound of ridged wood reminding him of when he's slide down the banister at home.

Home. Home truly is where the heart lies. He misses home, the Freshman Blues seeping down into his bones.

Andy gets up and forces himself to stretch, yawn, and exit his dorm room. He has a couple friends on campus, but no one worthwhile to go to during a time of need. Secretly, the only friends he's ever had that meant something to him where, well… his toys.

A couple months ago, right before he left for college, he played with his toys one last time. Oddly, he didn't feel ashamed of it; he was having too much fun to care if he looked foolish or immature. It was something he enjoyed.

"And aren't we all supposed to keep at least part of our inner child alive?" he wonders aloud, his voice barely above a murmur. He runs a hand through his sandy brown hair and shoves his hands into his pockets. His jeans are worn and soft, and the texture reminds him of…

He frowns. No object should mean so much to him. But that stupid doll did. That stupid toy that he loved and lost and found and fought with himself to keep or to give to that adorable little girl, Bonnie. He hadn't been sure, and now part of him regrets handing the cowboy over.

Why? Why does it bother Andy so much? It's just a toy. It's just a material possession…

It's just the only true friend he had. It's just the only thing left of home he wants to see and hold and have in this moment.

Stupid, stupid. He was so stupid for giving up that doll!

…But he would have looked even more stupid for bringing the thing with him to _college._ What does an eighteen-year-old need with toys, anyhow?

Except the comfort of one would be nice. Solely the familiar comfort. It would let him pretend, if only for a moment, that he was young and free and at home once more.

Sighing for a second time that evening, Andy kicks a random, ancient Coke can on the city sidewalk and proceeds around a corner. Not looking ahead and only at the ground, the brunet winds up falling backward onto his bottom after colliding with another body.

"Ouch! Dammit," Andy grumbles and rubs the back of his head. He hit it against a streetlight on the corner, only to add to the agony radiating from his tailbone.

"Oh! I'm so sorry 'bout that," a voice says from above, and Andy looks up through squinting eyes to find a tall male figure not much older than himself standing over him. The figure leans down and offers a hand to help him up. "I never look where I'm going, and it seems t' me like you don't look, either."

Andy blinks away stars and grasps the fellow student's hand with uncertainty. As he stands, he gets a better look at the other boy's face; amused brown eyes, perfectly straight teeth, tousled brown hair. His has a straight, lightly pointed nose and a light dusting of freckles from too much sun on his tanned face. He's wearing a red and yellow plaid shirt and jeans more worn than Andy's own, complete with holes in the knees. They look dusty, just like the leather rancher boots the older male is wearing.

He's just like how Andy imagined Woody would be if the doll were human, and Andy's age.

Andy forces himself to pull his jaw shut from its slack position. "Uh… Hi. Um, do you go to school here?"

"Yep," the other brunet says with a small grin. He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "I was actually jus' heading back to my dorm. Where're you headed?"

Andy shakes his head. "Nowhere, I guess."

"Don't you have any friends to go out with? It's a Friday night, after all."

The younger of the two shrugs. He shifts from foot to foot. "Not really. I… left them all at home. Besides, couldn't I ask the same about you?"

The unnamed boy chuckles. "Touché. But as it happ'ns, I'm in the same boat as you. I left my pals behind, too. Had to; there ain't many decent schools in New Mexico."

"New Mexico?" Andy questions. "That's pretty far away from here." And it explains the man's slight southern accent.

The other boy nods. "Got here on scholarship. Ma and Pop were real proud of me for doin' better th'n my brother, Benjamin." And he laughs like it's a joke, like his parents don't actually favor one son over the other, even though it's clear by his tone that his sibling rivalry must be pretty intense.

Andy nods like he understands, which he does, even if he's never experienced such rivalry of his own. His sister Molly isn't the fighting, competitive type; just the bratty, annoying kind. But he loves her anyway.

"Y'know, I dunno if I caught your name…" the darker brunet states kindly. He extends his hand for a second time, asking for a shake. "Th' name's Wesley Allen, but ev'rybody calls me Wes."

Wes and Ben Allen. Andy grins and takes Wes's hand. "I'm Andy Davis."

Releasing his hand, Wesley tips the brim of an invisible hat. "Well, it was nice talkin' t' you, Andy. Hope I see you 'round some time."

"You too…" Andy says with an airy smile. He furtively watches the other man walk away, and something blossoms inside of him.

Maybe, all this time, he's been holding on to Woody because he was just waiting for the right person to come along and replace said doll. And maybe that person happens to be a spitting image of the doll, a lucky coincidence indeed.…


	2. Coffee Run

**A/N: OMG, what am I doing? Am I posting another chapter and turning this into a threeshot? Oh noes! D:**

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It's strange, but there is almost an aching need dwelling inside of him, a craving that is unclear in its source and unquenchable in its thirst.

Andy wants to see Wesley again.

It's like his homesickness, only this need has been amplified into an obsession; he can't get the older brunet out of his head. Before, as a child, he had been unknowingly devoted to a charming doll; but now, as an (somewhat) adult, he understands why, although he is far too embarrassed to admit it.

The young dreamer stands and paces his dorm room a bit, his roommate nowhere to be found yet again. He shrugs his shoulders, not caring what befalls Mike What's-His-Last-Name, and caring instead only of how he might come across Wes for a second time by means of a "chance" meeting (and by 'chance,' Andy means a stalking mission). He rubs the length of his jaw in thought, and feels the prickle of stubble on his chin.

Clamoring into the bathroom, Andy passes the time and tries to rid his mind of Wes-oriented thoughts by preoccupying himself with shaving. It's been a few days since he last shaved, and looking at himself in the mirror for the first real time in over thirty-six hours, he sees how much of a shadow he's acquired.

Grunting in annoyance, he goes about the process of lathering, shaving, rinsing, and putting his razor away. He wastes a good ten minutes, but then the thoughts flood back along with the desires, and he's back here he started: art-blocked at the drawing board once more, figuratively speaking.

Andy sighs to himself and steals a glance out the window. It's sunny outside, with long afternoon shadows striping the paring lot outside of the dorms. He flicks his left wrist to check his watch; it's just after three o' clock. What to do, what to do? He doesn't have another class until about five. How can he blow two hours worth of time?

He decides to go out for a java fix like the average teenager would do. He grabs his keys and his wallet and jogs down the green carpeted stairs to the entrance way and flies out the doors. His keys jangle tunelessly in his hand as he approaches his car, his mother's old blue minivan. It worked well for getting here and carrying all of his junk, but now it just looks retarded; everybody else has pick-up trucks and sports cars and Volkswagen Beetles and Jeeps. Event he girls on campus have cooler-looking cars. But what can Andy do? It's all he has.

Starting the car and hearing the engine purr takes his mind off of the competitive nature of seconds prior. Old car or not, that sound reminds him that this little blue van is sturdy, reliable, and perfectly decent in condition for what he uses it for. So why care?

These sorts of pesky little things are what drive Andy bonkers. He thinks silly thoughts like this, because he is trying (much too hard) to forget about trying to see Wes. It's awful, really; he only met the man once, and he never really thought about sexual preference, but here he is with a plagued mind about a man slightly older than himself, in college, and having almost the perfect appearance of something precious to him.

Andy pulls into Seattle's Best and parks the car. He can smell roasted coffee beans, bittersweet and rich. He inhales deeply for a moment before plowing inside the little coffee shop.

He approaches the counter, eyeing with a lightly fond smile a couple in the corner; a man and a woman in their late twenties, an engagement ring on the blonde woman's ring finger.

"What'll ya have, sir?" a male's voice says to direct Andy's attention to the counter. There is a sheer grin in the person's tone.

"I'll have a –" but Andy stops himself as his gaze locks with the man's behind the register. "Wesley?"

"How're you?" the older brunet chuckles. "And what'd ya like t' order?"

Andy swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Um. A caramel… caramel…"

"Wait, lemme guess: one of those caramel icy coffees, right? The ones with the whip cream and caramel sauce on top?" Wes presumes immediately. "After all, it's a hot day out. You look like you could use something t' cool you off with."

"Yeah, exactly," Andy says with a lopsided smile. "Thanks, I'll have one of those. Large, please."

"Coming right up!" Wes winks, and he quickly types up a few numbers onto the cash register with his long, slender digits. "That'll be four dollars and sixty-five cents."

"So, you work here?" Andy says casually as he hands Wes the money.

"Out of five…" Wesley murmurs to himself as he presses more buttons and prints out a receipt. "And yes, I do, to answer your question. I mean, obviously," he adds jokingly. "But only part-time, since I'm a student full-time. And I don't work Sundays."

"Because it's the Sabbath?" Andy asks, testing to see if Wes is religious.

Wes smiles vaguely and hands Andy his change. "I suppose, but the real reason is that I'm too lazy on Sundays. I like t' sit 'round all day on Sunday and watch movies or go down t' the lake to fish. Have ya ever fished on Sundays, Andy?"

Oddly, Andy like the way Wes said his name.

"Can't say I have, at least not that often," Andy replies.

Wes nods to his left, directing Andy to stand aside for the other customers, but still within reach to receive his order and continue talking. After dealing with the next customer, Wesley leans over the counter and says, "There's nothing like it, y'know. Sunday mornings are the best: fresh, calm, bright. The fish are sleepy, but they're also hungrier than a bull for blood at a rodeo. You should try it sometime; it's real fun, and it gets you food for days if you're lucky."

Andy grins, and without meaning to act flirtatious, he slips in the line, "Maybe you could show me sometime and take me with you. I'm a horrible fisherman, but we could, um, get to know each other better."

Something sparks in Wesley's chocolate-colored eyes. "My Pa always said that a man bonds the most with another man on only three occasions: hunting, fixing a car, and fishing. He said the best friendships are formed that way."

"Really?" the younger of the two responds lightly, still a little embarrassed from flirting. He never flirts, and this is just… wrong. But still, he keeps going, all on instinct rather than thinking it through. "I wouldn't know. I've never… actually… done those sots of things. I mean, my mom had taken me fishing once or twice when I was a kid, but I didn't have much of a father figure, so…"

Wes suddenly looks heartbroken. "You didn't have a Pa to teach you things?"

Andy shakes his head mournfully. "No. Since I can remember, it's just been my mom and Molly and me."

"Molly. Your sister, I'm guessin'?" Wes questions with a slight cock of his head.

The imaginative boy nods. "Yeah. She was just a baby when I was a kid. She doesn't remember Dad at all. I don't remember him, either…" He shrugs, acting like it doesn't matter. He forces an odd smile. "But hey, what am I complaining about? I didn't need a dad. I had all I needed while growing up."

"Oh, and I don't doubt that," Wes says, his hands rising in surrender. A drink is handed to him, and he hands it to Andy. "Here's your order. I have t' get back to work now, and I'm sure you have things t' do, but before you go… here," and he hands Andy a napkin that he scribbles on with the marker used to mark the orders on the plastic cups. "This is my dorm room and building number. Meet me outside my door at five thirty sharp this Sunday. And don't be late, else I might jus' leave you behind." And Wes winks a final time before shooing Andy out of the store so that he can tend to another customer.

Suddenly satisfied, Andy smirks to himself and takes a sip of his drink. Victory has never tasted so sweet.


	3. Bonding Over Fish

**A/N: Here's the final installment. Now that I have tried out this fandom, I might just write some WoodyXBuzz and BuzzXJessie next, 'cause I like those pairings, too~ ;D  
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He's never felt so jittery in his life.

He made sure to wake up extra early to shower and get dressed in casual-but-appealing-to-the-eye sort of clothing, and he even made his hair slightly more tamed than usual, but…

But he is still a little nervous, because he's only met up with Wesley twice, both times accidental, and both times consisting only of small-talk. What if he can't think of anything to say? What if Wes decides he doesn't like Andy after all? What if Wes only wants to be friends?

Because that last thing is what bothers Andy the most. He's never seen himself as homosexual, but now that he thinks about it, he hasn't been interested in girls much, either. He dated once in high school to a junior girl who asked him to the homecoming dance his sophomore year, but they barely lasted a week as a couple following the dance itself. She was nice and kinda pretty and all, but Andy prefers brunets, specifically males, and he isn't sure why. His small obsession with a certain cowboy doll as a child might be why, but this is, once again, the embarrassing factor he doesn't want to admit to himself.

Shaking his head and sighing, Andy slips on his red Converse high-tops and laces them up hastily. He glances back at his dorm – his roommate snoozing on his stomach, snoring softly, his bright ginger hair peeking out from beneath the pillow – and momentarily shrugs before heading out the door.

Outside, the air is exactly as Wes described it: fresh. It's cool, with dew lingering on blades of bluish-green grass in the early morning dawn, the sun not quite on the horizon. The sky is clear of any clouds, and it's a lovely shade of periwinkle-grey, the faintest hue of yellow just beginning to lighten the sky beyond the trees in the distance. Andy can smell that green smell of grass and leaves wet from dew, and he can hear the faintest chip of birds.

It's beautiful. Why do teenagers sleep in, again?

Oh, yeah: because they have late nights spent partying and prefer their dreams to their true lives.

How sad.

Taking in a deep breath, Andy ventures over to the junior/senior half of the campus, with the tall, single-persons rooming dorm building. It's a good two hundred dollars more expensive to board here, but the juniors and seniors who aren't transfer students get a large discount for being students at the school for a longer period of time than the freshman and sophomores.

Andy chews on his bottom lip as he proceeds up the stairs, little worries like, 'What if I read the number wrong and I wind up at the wrong room?' and 'What if I'm too early, or too late, my clock faster or slower than Wes's?'

Frowning slightly, Andy decides to shake those irrational little fears away. He brushes them off like dirt from his jeans, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He just hopes that Wes has a spare fishing rod. Andy hasn't owned a fishing rod of his own since he was young, and he threw it out ages ago because it was short and thin and childish.

Cautiously, his heart drumming in his ears, Andy knocks on the door.

"Jus' a sec," a familiar voice sounds from within, and half of Andy's miniature worries wash down the drain as his facial expression softens. He leans back on one foot and tries to look nonchalant as he crosses his foot over the other one and leans against the wall near the doorframe. Seconds later, Wes answers the door, two poles and a tackle box in one hand, and a hat to block the rising sun from his eyes in the other. He grins warmly at Andy and flips the hat up and spins it once before placing it on his head. He shuts the door behind him. "Let's be off then, shall we?"

"Sure," Andy says, and follows Wes down the hallway, trying his best not to let his eyes wander downward towards Wesley's jeans. He doesn't want to think weird things, like how well those jeans fit, especially in the rear…

Wesley, no surprise, has a rough-n-tough 4X4 pickup truck, black and brown. He nods to his car and pats the driver's side door. "This here's my baby. I bought it m'self when I was fifteen and fixed it up with my Pa. He said ever car needs a pet-name, and I decided to name it Bullseye."

"Bullseye," Andy repeats, his tone clearly amused. He murmurs mostly to himself, "That's the name of Woody's horse."

He hadn't meant to be heard, but Wes hears him anyhow and lets out a low chuckle. He's blushing minutely. "Yeah, I know. I actually stole the name from that show. I used to watch it with my brother when we were small. It's from the fifties, but it was hella awesome to me when I was growin' up."

Andy stills for a minute, shocked. He can't stop the smile that slowly consumes his mouth. "It was awesome to me, too."

Wes laughs. "Well, I don't feel so embarrassed 'bout liking it, then." He unlocks the car and motions for Andy to get inside. Andy does, and after buckling up, he watches Wes secure the fishing rods and tackle box in the large truck bed. He climbs inside beside and Andy and starts the car. "I'm warnin' you now, though, that it takes a little while to get to the place I like fishin' at. That's why I told you to meet me so early."

"Oh, I don't mind. Why, how long of a drive is it?"

"Er, about forty minutes with good traffic, which we should have this early on a Sunday mornin'. Sorry I didn't warn you beforehand. But hey, I have a whole buncha CDs in the glove box that you can shuffle through and that we can listen to. I'd offer the radio, but it hasn't been working lately."

"That's fine," Andy says with a shrug. He leans forward and opens the huge glove compartment, shifting through papers until he comes across a CD case. He pulls it out and unzips the side of it, a good fifty CD slots waiting inside. Most of them are homemade, the covers blank and written on with Sharpie marker with silly titles and dates of creation. Andy selects a homemade CD at random, hoping that despite being from New Mexico, Wes likes more than country music since Andy kind of hates it.

Andy slides the CD into the slot and waits as the machine boots up and begins playing the first track. It ends up being not country at all, but alternative rock music, smooth and jammin' at the same time. Andy taps his foot in time with the beat, and steals a glance at Wesley. The rancher boy looks calm and comfortable, as if he takes strangers with him to fish all the time. But maybe they aren't strangers; after all, Andy might get embarrassed or nervous, but he feels like he already knows Wesley on some level.

"What song is this?" Andy asks, curious and also wanting to strike up conversation.

"'Creep' by Radiohead. Ever listened to Radiohead before?" Wes answers, and then glances to his right at Andy.

Andy looks away when he and Wes lock gazes. He fiddles with the CD case on his lap. "Not really, no. But the guy has a cool voice, and I like the subtle guitar in the background."

"What kind of music do you normally listen to?" Wes requests to know.

"Rock like this, I guess. I can't stand much else; I'm a little picky, I guess. I don't like jazz or classical or blues or hip-hop, and pop music and rap annoy me. Screamo and speed metal is just obnoxious, like rusty nails stabbing my ears, and disco is too slow. I really only like '80s dance and '90s rock," Andy replies. He shrugs his shoulders and steals a glance sideways at Wes, who looks amused. "But this is good. You have good taste."

"I noticed you didn't mention country or bluegrass. Why not? D'ya not want t' offend me er somethin', on account of where I'm from?" Wes adds, his tone half-suspicious, half-playful.

The younger of the two laughs meekly. "Um, yeah, actually. I was afraid you'd be offended."

Wes shakes his head. "Naw, I wouldn't be. I don't like bluegrass at all like my Pa does, and country's only good sometimes if the person singin' doesn't have a super-heavy accent or a whiny guitar."

Andy nods, looking relieved. "Well, I'm glad, 'cause I agree with you." He laughs a bit. "How about movies? What kinda of movies do you watch?"

"All kinds," Wes responds immediately. "Westerns, action, comedies, horror, and even the occasional 'inspirational' film. Kid movies are great, though; you know, those animated ones? Some of them are damn funny."

Andy's almost too embarrassed to ask, but having had been forced to watch many of them with his sister and mother, he needs to know: "What about the romantic ones, or black and white films? I guess they might be considered chick-flicks, but I dunno…" and he turns a pale shade of magenta.

Wesley chuckles. He reaches a hand over and pats Andy's shoulder, careful not to look away from the road. "Don't worry, man, I get where you're comin' from. And yes, I like a lot of those, too. Some are dumber than a cow pie, but there have been a few 'chick-flicks' as you put them that I've enjoyed as well."

Andy feels more comfortable now. He smiles. "Well, then I don't feel as embarrassed for having seen so many with the women in my family, then," he says, somewhat mimicking what Wes said earlier.

The rancher nods once, recognizing the mimic. He's smiling again, and Andy likes how his brown eyes twinkle when he does. "What about books? D'ya read much?"

And so forty minutes' worth of time is spent chatting about likes and dislikes, leading from genres to specifics to the talk of certain TV and book series. They hardly notice the time pass, their conversation being so steady and comfortable, a slightly awkward silence only occurring once when they disagree on one small thing: the topic of musicals. Andy likes them, but Wes doesn't.

When they arrive at the fishing hole, Andy discovers it to be a rather large pond in the middle of a spot of woods off of the main highway. It has algae and lily pads and turtles and toads and cattails and ducks, as if it were something out of a movie. There are weeping willows hanging over the edges of the water, their whips dipping into the water's surface like fingers reaching for the sky. The sky itself is reflected perfectly onto the water like a painting, and for a moment, all Andy can do is stare.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Wes says in a soft voice beside Andy. He has the fishing poles hanging off one shoulder, the tackle box in his opposite hand. "It reminds me of this spot I have back home. New Mexico isn't all desert, y'know. But it isn't as green as this, and I like this a lot better."

"Me too," Andy says breathlessly. He wishes he could live here, right on this pond, in a little log cabin or something.

"Well c'mon, this gear isn't gonna set itself up," Wes says, breaking Andy out of his trance. There are lawn chairs Andy hadn't noticed where also in the truck bed, two red ones with cloth and wood. Wes hands one to Andy, and the younger college student sets it up along the shore, near where Wes places his. The tackle box fits between them, worms and chicken liver in foam cups with lids that say, _Bill's Hunting Shop _with an address underneath the logo.

Wes shows Andy how to hook a worm, his hands covering Andy's as he helps the younger one loop the slimy, squirming body into the curved metal. Andy flushes a bit, oddly enjoying the feeling of the rougher, calloused hands sliding over his own. Wes has working hands, worn yet strong.

"What about the chicken liver?" Andy asks after Wes helps re-teach him how to cast. He watches as Wes finishes casting his own line.

"That's for the catfish and walleye, a close cousin," Wesley answers as he leans back in the lawn chair, pole in hand. "They like the smell of liver, and will come swimming up as soon as it hits the water, as long as you're within range of their hidin' places."

Andy nods, understanding. "And the worms? What do they attract?"

"Everything else that likes to see movement, like bluegill and bass, both largemouth and smallmouth. We'd be lucky if we got a carp or a northern, but I doubt they'd hang around a pond like this. The northern like rivers and streams, and carp like lakes. Still, it's been known to happen that ya might catch one of them instead. But what needs to be looked out for are the turtles; they like worms, too, and the snappers can get hooked and break your line," Wes explains, his facial expressions lively as they dance in beat with his words, his eyes never leaving Andy's.

"Has that ever happened to you?" the younger brunet wonders aloud.

Wes nods gravely. "And the bast'rd bit me, too." He turns over his left hand and shows it to Andy. There is a pink scar, relatively fresh, in between his thumb and forefinger. "I was tryin' t' help him out by getting my hook outta his mouth, but he didn't like me touchin' him, but can you blame him? I'm some strange human, and he's a wild turtle. Those two don't mix."

Andy frowns. "You should have turned him into turtle soup for biting you."

Wesley unexpectedly laughs. "Yeah, I should've! Bet he wouldda tasted good, too. He was a big boy."

Andy laughs, and suddenly feels a tug on his line, then another, and another much more rapid and hard. His line starts to pull in one direction, trialing off to the right near Wes's line.

"I got a bite!" Andy says excitedly, feeling like a kid again. He leaps up to his feet, and Wes is right behind him. "Do I tug back?"

"Not yet. You don't want him to be playin' you. Give it a moment, and then reel in the line real fast, lifting your pole vertically into the air. Got it?"

"Got it," Andy replies in a whisper, as if to keep from scaring the fish. He counts to three, and then yanks upwards and starts reeling. He can feel through the plastic wire the floundering fish, flapping and doing its absolute best to struggle and break free. He can also feel the adrenaline rush in his veins from the thrill of catching a fish all on his own, save for light instruction.

In moments, water is splashing up in Andy's face, and the brunet is laughing as the fish dangles in the air, the hook caught on its lower lip.

"You did it!" Wes congratulates. He pats Andy on the back, chuckling, and reaches out to pull the fish near him. He examines it for a brief moment before declaring it a largemouth bass, and big enough to be a keeper.

"How do we keep it, though?"

"Like this," Wes demonstrates. He takes out some blue rope with metal points on the ends, one the size of a stake and the other closer to a nail. He loops the nail end through the hole made by the hook, and strings the fish up. He connects the nail end to the stake end by sliding and locking it into the top. The fish is now back in the water, but he isn't going anywhere. "I don't like buckets; they don't keep the fish alive as long, and can get pretty nasty. But this way, it's less mess and lets the fish be happier longer."

Andy nods as if he understands.

They continue to fish for an hour and a half longer, small conversation passing the time her and there, but otherwise they simply sit patiently, waiting for the fish to bite and for the sun to inch across the sky.

By the time eight o' clock rolls by, the two college students are heading back to the truck outside of the forest. While walking, Wes clears his throat a tad unsurely.

"I hope I'm not wrong in proposing this, but… Would you like to have dinner with me next Friday as I get off work? I really like you, Andy, and I was hoping I wasn't incorrect in assuming…" He trails off, his voice soft and fearful of what Andy could say.

Andy stop walking, and the tackle box bangs against his thigh as Wes ceases movement as well. But Andy is smiling. "You're asking me out?"

Wes looks more than humiliated. He winces as if in pain. "Too soon? Or are you… straight?"

He shakes his head, laughing a bit to ease the tension. "Neither, I'm just surprised, that's all. Pleasantly surprised, so no worries, man. Of 'course I'd like to have dinner with you. Maybe we can catch a movie afterward, too; I like spending time with you, and we're both movie fanatics, so why not?"

Wes grins broadly and chuckles as he tips his hat upward to wipe from sweat from his brow. It's starting to get hot, even as August is fading and September is arriving. "Why not?" he parrots warmly. "Well then, it's a date."

They return to the vehicle in good spirits, and as Andy pops another random CD into the player, he asks, "Who sings this?"

"Shinedown. They're a great band."

And Andy Davis finally feels as though he's right where he should be. His heart is finally at home.


End file.
